


A Little Bit of First Aid

by Scrawlers



Series: To Devour the Sun [3]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Papa Sycamore, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-28 06:27:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8435092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: When Alan returns to the cabana after resolving to investigate the Aether Foundation on his own, Professor Sycamore pulls him aside to treat both the wound on his hand and the remnants of his panic attack.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I got the impression that the League took place at the start of summer. I headcanon Alan’s birthday as June 30th, and as a result I imagine that he was still fifteen, but almost sixteen, as of the League. It’s relevant because I imagine this little AU taking place within the first couple weeks of August, and so Alan is technically sixteen here, albeit newly so. (So, still way closer to fifteen than seventeen, in other words, but nonetheless.) I only bring this up because he mentions having known Professor Sycamore for eleven years in this fic, and if you’re still thinking of him as fifteen, that math would be a bit off! (Granted, it’s a bit off anyway given the exact date they met, but details, details.) I also headcanon that Alan has an eidetic memory (albeit the fun, fictional sort of eidetic memory), and that comes up a bit in this fic, just so everyone knows why one certain part is written the way it is.
> 
> As a final note, given when this takes place, he is still dressed in his Alola vacation attire as described in the first fic. So if you want completely accurate visuals, check that out.

The windows to the cabana were open, the scent of dinner wafting through them, when Alan and Lizardon returned around an hour later. Although the aroma that drifted through the windows was warm (and filled with enough spices that Alan could tell right away that Meyer was the one who had prepared supper), the gentle sounds of clinking silverware were enough to make a small thread of anxiety worm its way through him, enough so that Lizardon knew to land just out of sight of the nearest window. There was no avoiding the situation, not really—he would have to walk in, late, and all eyes would be on him when he did—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t stave off the shame for an extra minute or two before he forced himself to take it. Alan slid off Lizardon’s back when they landed, the mega evolution dissipating in a flash, and gently stroked Lizardon’s snout as he walked around to stand in front. Lizardon ducked his head down, happily bumping the side of his nose against Alan’s palm.

“Thanks for the ride,” Alan said quietly, and a low rumble sounded in Lizardon’s throat that Alan understood to be an _‘of course_.’ “What do you want to do for dinner tonight? Do you want the standard, or do you want to go fish something up?”

Lizardon crooned his reply, and though Alan could tell what he meant by that alone, he still jerked his head back toward the sea. Alan smiled, and scratched along the underside of Lizardon’s jaw.

“Go catch yourself something delicious, then,” he said. Lizardon flashed a reptilian grin in response, and Alan let his own smile linger a moment more before he dropped his voice to an undertone and said more seriously, “I think we should leave around midnight. Everyone should be asleep by then, and that will give us enough time to recon and return before everyone wakes up. Wait for me outside of my window; I think it’ll be easiest to climb out from there rather than risk waking anyone up by leaving through the door.”

Lizardon nodded, his expression serious enough to match Alan’s own, and that was enough to make the corners of Alan’s lips quirk up again as he gave Lizardon one final pat.

“All right. Go enjoy your supper. We’ll catch up later.”

Lizardon made a happy sound of agreement, and bumped his snout gently against Alan’s forehead. Unbidden, Alan’s small smile shifted to a full-blown grin as he huffed a surprised laugh, and—seemingly satisfied—Lizardon gave him one final smile before he turned and took to the sky with two strong beats of his wings. Alan watched him soar against the horizon, his orange scales a brilliant blend against the oncoming sunset, before he allowed himself to acknowledge the mild dread in his gut (dread that not even Lizardon’s impromptu forehead kiss could cast away) and turned toward the door.

It was going to be awkward. There was no getting around it. Walking in late was _always_ awkward. But lingering outside would only make him _more_ late, which would only make the situation more awkward, resulting in an ever-worsening downward spiral. Resigning himself to this, and taking a deep breath to brace himself for it, he opened the door (reminding himself at the last minute to use his left hand, due to the cut on his right) and let himself inside.

As he had been able to tell due to the scent of dinner and the sounds of silverware through the window, everyone had already gathered around the kitchen table. Clemont, Bonnie, and Manon were already all seated; Clemont was seated at the end nearest the window, with Bonnie on his right and Manon on his left. Meyer stood next to Bonnie, oven mitts protecting his hands from the metal handles of the pasta pot as he set it on the table, and Professor Sycamore stood at the other end opposite Clemont, his hands on the back of his chair. Although Alan opened the door and slipped inside as quietly as possible, Bonnie still spotted him immediately due to her position at the table, and (as always, for reasons he didn’t understand) her face lit up in a bright smile the second she laid eyes on him.

“Alan! You’re back!”

As if Bonnie’s words were the signal, Clemont, Manon, Meyer, and the Professor all looked toward the door, Manon twisting around in her seat (and Hari-san hopping up from her lap to her shoulders) to do so. Alan forced a smile and shoved his right hand into his pocket (biting back a wince as the cut on his palm scratched against denim) as he raised his left in a wave.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said.

“You’re not late at all! More like right on time,” Meyer said, his smile just as wide and carefree as his daughter’s. “We were just settling down to dinner. Hungry?”

As delicious as the food smelled, the scent of it alone had been enough to make his stomach ache with residual tenderness. Eating immediately after vomiting was never a good idea, and what made it worse was that he could still feel a tight knot of stress in his gut, serving as a warning that, no matter how _thorough_ he felt he had been back on that island, he could always still throw up _more_ if he decided to test himself by eating again. The suggestion of food now made the warning even clearer; his throat felt constricted at the mere _thought_ of putting more food down it, and he had to force himself to swallow (and fight back against his gag reflex) so that he could keep up an appearance of normalcy and say, “Sure.”

“Come on in and pull up a chair, then,” Meyer said, as Manon smiled in what looked like relief.

But while Meyer had told him to pull up a seat, the Professor seemed to have other ideas. He had moved away from the table as Meyer had spoken, and before Alan had a chance to take more than three steps the Professor met him halfway and said, “Let me see your hand.”

Alan’s heart skipped an uncomfortable beat in his chest, but even as he curled the fingers of his right hand instinctively in his pocket to try and hide the injury the Professor couldn’t see, he held out his left for the Professor to examine instead.

He had barely extended it before the Professor shook his head and said, “No, your other one.”

There was nothing for it, then. The Professor knew. As the realization, heavy and writhing, settled in Alan’s chest, he looked past the Professor and glared at Manon, who winced before she quickly turned back around to face the table again. As she did, he said caustically, “Thanks. Really. I appreciate it.”

“You’re the one who flew off without treating your injury first! What was I supposed to do?!” Manon burst out as she whipped back around to face him again and Hari-san exploded in a round of angry chatter. Alan stared Manon’s defiant pout down, even as the Professor shook his head.

“She was just worried about you,” the Professor said, and as Alan looked back to him, the Professor held out his hand. “Now, let me see.”

“It isn’t that bad,” Alan said, but he pulled his hand out of pocket regardless, and flipped his palm up so that the Professor could examine the cut. In the soft light of the cabana, the blood crusted under his fingernails was more evident than ever, and though most of the blood around the injury had already crusted into a dark red, there were still a few fresh beads bubbled near the center. The Professor was quiet, his brow furrowed and his lips pressed into a frown as his thumb brushed over the cut. Alan’s heart tapped a frantic beat against his ribs, and before he could stop himself he blurted, “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

The Professor looked up, his eyes wide for just a moment before he smiled. His expression was soft, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes. A cold sensation of shame slid down Alan’s back.

“I know,” the Professor said, as he released Alan’s hand. “Come on. The first-aid kit is in the bathroom.”

“You don’t have to—I can take care of it myself,” Alan said. He was keenly aware of the fact that all eyes in the cabana were on them to a degree that was ten times worse than how everyone had looked at him simply for walking in late. “You should eat dinner, it’s getting cold—”

“This won’t take long,” the Professor said. “Besides, you only have two hands, and one of them is injured. It’ll be easier if I help.”

It wasn’t so much _what_ the Professor said that told Alan that there was no point in arguing further as it was _how_ he said it. In the eleven years that Alan had known the Professor, he could only think of a handful of times that the Professor had ever been angry with him, if that. But while the Professor had rarely raised his voice or expressed actual anger toward Alan, he did still have a way of making it clear when he was firm about something. It was a certain _tone_ he used—a layer of folded steel behind his otherwise even voice and smile that told Alan that no matter how much he tried to protest, the Professor was not going to back down. His word was final, and that was that. This, despite the fact that dinner was growing cold on the table and Alan was perfectly capable of treating his hand himself, was definitely one of those times. Alan sighed, and nodded.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you.”

The Professor nodded, and put his hand on Alan’s shoulder to gently guide him toward the hall. As Alan passed, the Professor looked back to the others gathered at the table and said, “You can go ahead and get started. This won’t take us very long.”

“All right,” Meyer said, as he settled into the chair to the left of the Professor’s at the table. He was still smiling faintly, but like with the Professor, there was a measure of concern in his eyes that prevented his smile from reaching it. Bonnie and Clemont were both watching them in worry and trepidation, and Manon had turned back to her plate.

The cabana they were staying at had three bathrooms: one in the downstairs hall, one in the upstairs hall, and one off the master bedroom. Of the three, the downstairs hall bath was the tiniest; rather than having a shower or even just a bathtub, it was only just large enough to have a counter-style sink and a toilet. Alan flicked the light on as he entered the bathroom and stood over by the toilet in order to create enough space for the Professor to follow him inside. The Professor shut the door behind him as he entered (confirming, Alan felt, that he had insisted on treating Alan’s hand because he wanted to discuss something privately with him), and then turned on the sink tap, running his hand beneath the water a few times as he tested and adjusted the temperature.

“Here,” the Professor said after a moment, and he extended his hand toward Alan again. “Let’s start by cleaning your cut first.”

“All right.” Alan didn’t take the Professor’s hand, but he stepped closer to the sink so that he could stick his hand beneath the tap. The cut stung as the water rushed over it—Alan did his best not to wince—and the Professor took his wrist and turned it so that he could apply a dollop of antibacterial soap to the wound.

“How are you feeling?” the Professor asked, as he gently massaged the soap in.

“I’m fine,” Alan said. The answer was as automatic as it was (at least relatively) true, and the Professor seemed to know it given the way his lips twitched toward a frown.

“Okay,” he said, and he guided Alan’s hand beneath the tap again so that the water could rinse away the soap. “How were you feeling an hour ago after you left to go flying with Lizardon?”

Alan took a deep breath to try and put a comfortable amount of air in his lungs. It didn’t work as well as he had hoped. “I—I was fine. You don’t have to worry, Professor. I’m fine.”

“It’s not about whether I have to or not,” the Professor said. Alan wasn’t sure what to say to that, and silence broken only by the running faucet lingered between them for a few seconds before the Professor said, “Manon told me about your visit to Aether Paradise. She said you seemed rather stressed while you were there.”

Alan shrugged as best he could, and while the shame he had felt before had been like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt, his embarrassment now felt more like Lizardon’s tail flame held near the back of his neck. “It was stupid. I overreacted.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I would say you had the best reaction one could hope for, given your circumstances.”

With the last remnants of blood and soap rinsed free from Alan’s palm, the Professor turned off the faucet and opened the medicine cabinet to bring out the first aid kit. Alan dried his hand using a small hand towel from the rack by the sink before he knocked the lid of the toilet down and sat down upon it.

“There weren’t really ‘circumstances,’” Alan said. “It was just a tour at a pokémon sanctuary. Everything was fine. Nothing bad happened. L . . .” He swallowed, Lusamine’s name stuck in his throat, and then switched tracks. “One of the employees there—Wicke—gave Manon brownies at the end.”

“I heard. Manon said you were offered some, but didn’t want them.” The Professor looked over and met Alan’s eyes, a knowing smile on his lips. Like before, it didn’t reach his downcast eyes. “That’s unlike you, given your sweet tooth.”

Alan looked away. “I just wasn’t hungry. That’s all.”

The Professor sighed lightly, but didn’t press the subject. “We did a little bit of research on the Aether Foundation while you were gone. Nothing too intensive—just a little digging online.”

Alan’s heart missed a beat in his chest as he looked back. “And?”

The Professor took his wrist again, and spoke as he smoothed antibacterial ointment over the cut on Alan’s palm with a cotton swab. “From what we found online, they’ve been in operation for a little over ten years now. They function primarily as a sanctuary for injured, sick, or traumatized pokémon, as you saw, but it seems they also have a hand in helping the trainers of this region through a partnership they have with the regional professor—Kukui. Kukui helps run a school for beginning trainers, and the Aether Foundation runs a program through the school that seeks to help new trainers bond with their pokémon and enhance their abilities—that is, the abilities of both the trainer and the pokémon, as one. They also provide the school with state-of-the-art technology and other resources as needed.”

An uncomfortable feeling akin to an arbok trying to constrict several butterfree at once took up root in Alan’s chest. He took a deep breath through his nose and stared hard at the floor as he tried to ignore it. “I see.”

The Professor set the cotton swab on the sink before he began to wrap Alan’s hand using a roll of bandages and small gauze pad from the first-aid kit. “There were also several news reports about the clashes they’ve had with Team Skull, though Manon said that one of the Aether Foundation employees told you both about that. She said they seemed pretty intent on capturing that boy that’s been hassling you.”

“He hasn’t been hassling me; he just wants to battle. He’s just not very good at being civil about it,” Alan said, and despite his mood his lips twitched as the Professor chuckled. “But I don’t mind. Battling him gives me a chance to examine his pokémon, even if it’s difficult given the pace of the battle and how quickly Lizardon ends it even when he’s trying to hold back.”

“I take it Gladion isn’t very experienced in battle, then?” the Professor asked as he tore the strip of bandage away from the roll and set the roll on the sink.

“No, but I don’t think that’s really the problem. He does seem to have an idea of what he’s doing, even if he’s still a newbie. I think the issue is more with his pokémon. It doesn’t seem to have much stamina or strength, but I can’t tell if . . .”

“If what?”

Alan furrowed his brow, frowning at the baseboard for a moment before he closed his eyes. As vividly as if he was looking at a video recording of their most recent battle, he saw Null toss its head in a snort, the sunlight casting a dull shine on the gray horn arcing up and over the back of its head. He could see the way the green claws of Null’s front paws dug deep trenches into the sand, and how the grains of sand that were kicked up thanks to Null’s quick movements clung to the blue-silver fin sticking out from its hindquarters. He could see once more how Null didn’t seem to put as much weight on its back paws, tiny and black as they were, and how its back footprints were just as shallow as they were tiny as a result.

“I don’t know if his pokémon’s lack of stamina is because of how it is as an individual, or if it’s something particular to the species, because I can’t figure out what species it is,” Alan said, and he opened his eyes to look back over at the Professor, who stared back with the same degree of seriousness he gave his mega evolution research. “I’ve never seen another pokémon like it, except . . .”

“Except?”

“Except I feel that I have, in a way.” Alan looked back at the wall, recalling again the way Null posed at the start of each battle, and the way it moved as it jumped around the battlefield as it tried to avoid Lizardon’s attacks. “There are parts of it that look familiar, but it clearly isn’t any of the pokémon that it resembles. I can’t figure it out, and it’s hard to tell in the short bursts of battle I’ve had with Gladion so far. It’s part of why I’m never upset when he challenges me. Each battle gives me a new chance to examine it.”

“I see,” the Professor said, as he fastened the bandage down with a strip of adhesive tape. The bandage secure, the Professor squeezed the tips of Alan’s fingers to check his circulation as he asked, “And Gladion hasn’t said anything about what species his pokémon is?”

“No. He calls it Null, but I’ve always assumed that was a nickname,” Alan said. The Professor released his hand, satisfied with his handiwork, and Alan examined the bandaging as the Professor started to pack up the first-aid kit. The bandaging was as perfect as it always was whenever the Professor dressed one of his wounds. “I’ve tried asking him about it, but I think he’d rather remove his own spleen with a pair of pliers and no anesthetic than tell me anything about Null.”

The Professor grimaced. “That is some measure of reluctance.”

Alan dropped his hands to his lap, and once again a tendril of amusement caused his lips to twitch. “Gladion only operates in extremes as far as I can tell.”

“It certainly sounds like it.” The Professor was quiet for a moment before he said, “But about the Aether Foundation . . .”

Any amusement that Alan had felt while thinking about Gladion evaporated, and his fingers froze where they had been toying with the edge of the bandage. He swallowed despite how the dryness of his throat made that difficult, and said in as steady of a voice as he could manage given the way his heart had picked up its pace again, “It’s fine. I mean—they’re fine, aren’t they? They clearly do a lot of good here in Alola. I’m sure they wouldn’t have a partnership with Professor Kukui if they were trying to do anything harmful. I was just being paranoid.”

“I wouldn’t call you paranoid—just cautious, and it’s understandable given what you’ve been through,” the Professor said, demonstrating once again that he was far more understanding than Alan deserved. The Professor put the first-aid kit back in the medicine cabinet and closed it with a soft _click_ before he suggested, “Why don’t we look into them together? That way we can make sure they’re safe and put your mind at ease.”

Alan caught himself just before he balled his hands into fists, shameful heat washing over his skin as a sharp, ringing awareness of just how badly he had screwed up rang clearly through his head. They were supposed to be on a vacation of sorts. The Professor was here to do research—research that he, Alan, was supposed to be helping with—but that didn’t change the fact that Alola was a tropical paradise for foreigners such as them, and that this was still supposed to be an enjoyable, relaxing journey after everything that had happened with Flare. The Flare crisis had largely been his fault; Lysandre’s actions were only made possible via the mega evolution energy that Alan himself had gathered, and as a result the blame for the destruction that befell Lumiose City and the troubles that everyone present in the cabana that evening had suffered through fell squarely on Alan’s shoulders. What was done was done; he couldn’t undo the actions that had led to the crisis, and it was unlikely he would ever be able to atone for it entirely. The most he could do moving forward was try not to be a burden or danger to anyone ever again, particularly those he loved. He could at least resolve to do that much.

But whatever resolve he had for that was quickly spiraling out of his control. As much as he didn’t want to burden the Professor or drag anyone in the cabana down with him again, the Professor was offering to put his research and vacation on hold in order to help Alan try to deduce whether or not the Aether Foundation was malicious or not. Alan still didn’t have an answer one way or another, though he intended to find out, but whatever their true intentions were, it didn’t matter. Even if they were evil, Alan couldn’t let the Professor get dragged into it. He couldn’t endanger and drag the Professor down like that. Not again.

“No, it’s okay,” Alan said finally, and he tore his eyes away from his bandaged hand to look up and meet the Professor’s eyes. “You should enjoy the rest of our trip; you don’t need to bother yourself with this.”

The Professor frowned, his brow pinched together over his eyes. “Alan—”

“I’m sure it’s okay, Professor.” It was easier to keep his voice even now—easier to sound normal, easier to sound as _okay_ as he was reassuring the Professor the situation with Aether was. “And if it’s not—if anything comes up, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

The Professor was quiet for a long moment, and the stare he fixed Alan with felt both piercing and contemplative in equal measure. But the tension left his shoulders in a light sigh after a moment, and he nodded once as he said, “All right, but make sure you tell me. You’re not alone, Alan. I’m here to give you whatever support you need.”

Despite how he knew that the Professor’s support was more than he could ever deserve, Alan smiled. “Thanks, Professor.”

A fleeting smile crossed the Professor’s face in response. “Any time. Now, do you feel up to eating supper? If you’d rather go lie down for a while, that’s more than understandable. You’ve had a rough day.”

Alan shook his head as he stood up. “No, I’m fine. That . . . episode was more than an hour ago. I can eat.”

“Are you sure?” the Professor asked, and Alan nodded. The Professor smiled again, and placed his hand on Alan’s head just long enough to lightly ruffle his hair. “Okay then, let’s go join the others.”

“Right behind you,” Alan said, and he reached over to flick the light off once the Professor opened the bathroom door.

He wasn’t really wrong when he said that everything was all right. For all he knew, it was. So far he had no concrete evidence that the Aether Foundation was engaging in any wrongdoing, and in fact, all signs pointed to the opposite. Lysandre, after all, had been vehemently against involving Professor Sycamore in his plans. Surely, if the Aether Foundation was like Fleur-De-Lis Laboratories, Lusamine would have been just as adamant against involving Professor Kukui. If that was true, and the Aether Foundation really was on the up and up, then there was no reason for the Professor to put his research on hold to help Alan investigate them. There was no reason for him to waste his time simply because Alan was paranoid. So he wasn’t entirely wrong, Alan felt, when he said that it was okay and the Professor didn’t need to bother with it. In fact, for all he knew, he was actually completely right. And if he wasn’t, and the Aether Foundation _was_ malicious and he unearthed the evidence to prove it . . .

Alan forced a smile for Meyer, Bonnie, Clemont, and Manon as he took a seat between Manon and Professor Sycamore at the table, and reached for the ladle to scoop some pasta onto his plate.

If the Aether Foundation was malicious, then that was all the more reason to keep the Professor and the others out of harm’s way. He had failed to protect them before because he hadn’t realized that Fleur-De-Lis—that _Lysandre_ —was evil. Now he had the benefit of prior knowledge, and he was going to use that to his advantage. Alan would fail them again only over his dead body. Of that, he was sure.


End file.
